


If You Try Sometimes

by speakingwosound (sev313)



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Accidental Marriage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2017-02-08
Packaged: 2018-09-22 20:45:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9624632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sev313/pseuds/speakingwosound
Summary: "It's new to you, it's not new to me." Andy shrugs, picking carefully through the lies he and Rafa concocted with their PR managers. "Rafa and I have been in a committed relationship for years, getting married was just a natural continuation of that.  Our lives haven't changed much."Andy's never had to lie so much in his life.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the amazing [Fight Back Fic](https://fightbackfic.tumblr.com/) exchange for the prompt _Andy/Rafa, accidental marriage_. Thank you so much to the wonderful [Posner](https://posner.tumblr.com) for commissioning the fic. I hope you like it!
> 
> The tabloid articles used throughout the fic are all fictional, but are very much written in tabloid style. I apologize for the bad writing up front!
> 
> The title comes from the Rolling Stones' _You Can't Always Get What You Want._

**_Britain's Newly-Knighted Son Caught Coming Out of Gay Chapel in Monte Carlo_  
**

  * Tennis star caught on camera Saturday night leaving a predominantly-gay church with fellow tennis star Rafael Nadal
  * Murray is the World No. 1 player in the world and was knighted by Queen Elizabeth last December
  * Rafael Nadal is a former World No. 1 player who has been plagued by injuries the past few seasons



By CHRIS SPARGO FOR DAILYMAIL.COM  
Published: 12 February 2017

Britain's greatest sportsman Andy Murray has been notorious for keeping his private life, well, private. The Daily Mail may have finally uncovered why.

New pictures shed light on Murray's personal life. They were taken in the wee hours of Sunday morning, as Murray and lifetime rival Rafael Nadal were leaving a chapel in Monte Carlo.

The non-denominational chapel is well known for officiating a number of gay marriages over the last few years. The chapel's resident Justice of the Peace is also well known for handing out 'love is love' bumper stickers at local parades.

Murray and Nadal look cozy as they stop on the steps to, as one Twitter user has said, 'gaze lovingly into each other's eyes.' 

The Daily Mail has enhanced both the pictures, and it appears that both Murray and Nadal are wearing wedding rings to match their good spirits.

Murray was practicing with his team in Monte Carlo after his surprise loss in the Australian Open last month. Murray was the favorite to win the year's first Grand Slam, but crashed out in the last 16 to relatively-unknown Mischa Zverev.

Nadal capitalized on Murray's early exit to make his first run to a Grand Slam final since 2014. He lost to Roger Federer after being a break up in the 5th set. 

The season was looking up for Nadal, until he announced last week that he was pulling out of the ABN Amro World Tennis Tournament in Rotterdam. He cited continued pain in the wrist that kept him off the ATP world tour for 6 months last year.

It appears that Murray and Nadal have a lot more to focus on in 2017 than tennis.

Did you suspect that Murray was gay? Sound off below.

**Comments 1.2K**

***

**March 2017, Indian Wells**

"Andy."

"Andy, where's Rafa?"

"Andy, Andy, over here. How was your first match as a married man?"

"Andy, did Rafa text you after the match?"

Andy drops his head, rubbing at the back of his neck, trying to ease the muscle that's gone stiff and sore in the weeks since he and Rafa foolishly got married in front of a Justice of the Peace and the entire world.

The rubbing doesn't do much to loosen the muscle or still the press banging at his mental doors.

He takes a deep breath, looks up again, and holds up his hands, palms out in surrender. "Okay, okay. While a lot of things have changed since I last saw you, I still can't answer more than one question at a time."

There's a nervous half-chuckle. Andy's pretty sure it's a pity chuckle, but he'll take it.

"Andy." Simon Cambers of _The Telegraph_ stands, holding out his phone, microphone-first. "How did it feel getting your first win after your shotgun wedding a few weeks ago?"

"A shotgun wedding is when one of us is pregnant, yeah?" Andy glances into the crowd, gets a few nods, and shrugs. "Well, neither of us have the anatomy for it. I woulda thought that was rather obvious by now."

Simon blushes a little, but doesn't back down. "Wrong choice of words, but question still stands."

Andy sighs. "It felt like any first round win at any Masters tournament. This year's field is incredibly strong, and it's been a few weeks since I've been on court. It felt good to get out there and find my feet again."

Beat-writer Matt Cronin stands. "How did you focus, mentally, with everything else going on off-court?"

Andy crosses his arms on the table. "I don't honestly waste a lot of mental energy on you all when I'm not in this room."

There's a spattering of self-deprecating chuckles. Score one for Andy.

"While I don't doubt that," Chris Clarey of the _New York Times_ pipes in, "this is your first tournament as a married man. That's new, and it has to be at least a little distracting?"

"It's new to you, it's not new to me." Andy shrugs, picking carefully through the lies he and Rafa concocted with their PR managers. "Rafa and I have been in a committed relationship for years, getting married was just a natural continuation of that. Our lives haven't changed much."

"Do you miss having him here, for your first tournament?" Kamakshi Tandon of _tennis.com_ smiles at him, like she's trying to lull him into some sense of ease.

As if Andy hasn't been wallowing in unease every day for the last four weeks. His anxiety isn't falling for that trick. "Rafa is where Rafa needs to be. He's at home in Mallorca, rehabbing his wrist. I would never want him here if it affects his rehab."

"Most players find it comforting to have their loved ones in their boxes," Chris pushes.

"Most players aren't married to other tennis players." Andy rubs at his arm, pushing his hand under the sleeve of his t-shirt and wishing, not for the first time, that Rafa was here with him, if only to use his media charm and put all this to rest. "And Rafa's rarely been in my box before, I doubt he'll be there much now."

"Flavia Pennetta and Fabio Fognini-"

"Focused on their own careers until Flavia retired," Andy interrupts.

Matt must sense the futility of that line of questioning, because he stands up and tries, "you kept your relationship secret for a long time. Did your family know?"

"I'm not going to answer that."

"For just how long have you and Rafa been dating?"

"I won't answer that either."

"Players have often had great success after getting married. Novak went on a wonderful run just a year or so ago, and Roger has credited a lot of his success to his marriage. Do you think it'll have the same effect on you?"

Andy tries to smile at Kamakshi gratefully for the question, but he's worried it comes off as more of a grimace. "I hope so. Novak and Roger have both talked about how their marriages provided stability and balance. Rafa provides those things for me." Andy closes his eyes, and finishes, quieter than he ever meant to, "I just hope I can provide that for Rafa."

Indian Wells' PR woman steps forward. "One more question."

"Do you think you can go on a winning streak like Novak had in 2014 and 2015?"

Andy shrugs. "What Novak's done- it's incredible. I'm feeling good. My serve was good today, I was returning well. If I can keep that up, I think I have a genuine shot here."

***

Andy's genuine shot doesn't even last through the second round. He falls to Jack Sock 6-7(6), 7-6(2), 6-7(8).

Then he crashes out in the third round in Miami, 4-6, 6-1, 6-7(4) to Ferru.

He ignores the press until he climbs, exhausted, onto the first flight from Miami to Mallorca. Then he pulls out his phone and Googles his name.

The headlines read:

_Trouble in Paradise?_

_Rafa's Absence the Reason for Murray's Early Exits At the Year's First Two Masters_

_Murray Unfocused on Court, Mentally at Home with his Convalescing New Husband_

Andy stops reading the papers.

***

"Hola?" Rafa calls, from deep within the house. "Hello? Andy?"

Andy drops his bags by the front door and toes off his shoes. He feels drained, his mind and body drenched in the long flight and the ache of two early losses. He reaches up to knead his cramped shoulder.

"You are hurt?"

Andy looks up and forgets all about the exhaustion, the losses, the press, in the face of Rafa standing there. His hair is standing on end, pillow creases crossing his cheeks, his sleep pants riding low on his hips as he looks at Andy intensely. 

Rafa's mouth twists unhappily. "Is why you lose? The shoulder?" 

He looks sad, but he sounds almost hopeful. 

Andy gets that. An injury would be an acceptable solution. An injury would be a much better scapegoat than admitting that his career is suffering – his whole team is suffering, his family is suffering, his country is suffering – because they spent one stupid night drowning Rafa's own injury sorrows in spectacularly expensive rum.

He shrugs, showing full movement in the shoulder without having to say it.

Rafa's mouth twists even more, until even the wrinkles around his eyes are frowning.

Andy's chest aches. "I'm sorry," he says, meaning _for losing_ , meaning _for everything_ , meaning _for drawing you into my mess and still,_ still, _not explaining it to you_. Because Andy may not remember finishing off that last bottle and stumbling to the chapel, but Andy's absolutely sure that it was his idea.

Rafa crosses his arms across his chest, his arms bunching and pulling so that his shirt rides up, and stubbornly ignores Andy. "Is late. I make up guest room. Come."

Andy slings his bag over his shoulder with a grunt and follows Rafa down the hall, unable to look away from that little slip of skin between Rafa's sleep pants and his shirt.

"Is good?" Rafa asks, hovering in the doorway as Andy passes him to enter the room, but not crossing the threshold himself.

"It's perfect. Thank you, really, I know it's late and-" Andy swallows. "Thank you."

Rafa squints, and for one, breathless moment, Andy's sure he's going to say something, anything about how he's really feeling. In the end, though, he nods and turns on his heel, leaving Andy as in the dark as he has been in the weeks since their sham of a marriage began.

The last genuine moment Andy remembers is Rafa, serious and beautiful and so earnest, asking, "you ever wish things were different?" and pouring one last fateful double-shot.

Andy thinks they might have kissed after that, but he only remembers the rest of the night in snippets. The smell of Rafa's cologne, mixed with sweat and rum. The sound of the bar around them, fading away. The feel of Rafa's skin under his fingers, warm and tan and fragile. 

It's probably just Andy's subconscious, trying to make something out of the mess of his psyche. Rafa certainly hasn't shown any desire to kiss him, or, even, any desire to be in the same room as him. Not since their marriage went public while they were still sleeping off spectacular hangovers.

A figment of his subconscious or not, though, Andy falls asleep to the snippets of memories and the soft sounds of Rafa snoring down the hall.

***

The house is quiet when Andy wakes up the next morning, but there's a plate of food on the table, still a little warm from the oven. His name is next to it, scribbled on a scrap of paper in Rafa's loopy handwriting.

Andy stares at it for an inordinately long time before he starts to eat.

***

It becomes a routine over the next few days. Andy wakes up long after the house is quiet, to breakfasts of all his favorite Nadal family specialties. He eats, dresses, and heads out for a run and a gym session while Rafa, he presumes, takes the opportunity to come in from his rehab, shower, and head out again.

Andy spends the afternoon on the court and doesn't see Rafa 'til long after dark, when he trudges in with a bucket of fish for the next day's breakfast. 

Andy wants to ask Rafa how his day was. Andy wants to ask him why he looks so tired, how his wrist is feeling, hell, he'd even settle for a discussion of the day's fishing conditions.

Rafa, though, never meets his eyes as he puts the fish away, then, inevitably, says, "long day, I go to bed," and slips down the hallway.

Andy wants to spring off the couch to stop him.

Andy wants to push him into a seat, make him watch as Andy tries to make some semblance of dinner.

Andy wants Rafa to laugh at him and push Andy aside with his hands and his hips as he tells Andy that's he's hopeless, that he can never be Mallorcan with the way he butchers fish.

Andy wants Rafa to mean, _you will always, forever, be Mallorcan, because I am Mallorcan, and you are mine_.

But Andy figures he's already intruding enough by being here, invading Rafa's home and disrupting Rafa's recovery all for the image of a marriage that doesn't actually exist. 

So, Andy lets him go.

***

"Toni say we go to dinner."

Andy mutes the TV and looks up at Rafa, unable to hide the surprise that must be written all over his face. It's the first real sentence Rafa's spoken to him in over a week. "Okay," he agrees, slowly. "Why?"

"He say is no good you be here, if we no act like husbands."

Andy shivers as the word slides down his spine.

"So, he make reservation. Well, is family restaurant, but," Rafa shrugs, "is nice. Good food. If- If is okay?"

"Yeah," Andy says, raising his arm to test how rank he still smells after his afternoon practice with Carlos Moya. "I just need to shower, but, yeah, that sounds nice."

"Si, yes, nice," Rafa repeats, like he's trying the word out for the first time.

It doesn't take Andy long to shower, but he does spend an inordinate amount of time staring at his small bag of street clothes. He finally settles on a lightweight blue sweater he'd packed for the Indian Wells players' party and pulls it on.

Rafa's waiting for him, dressed in a button up, his hair slicked back in that way he thinks makes him look professional and sophisticated.

There was a time when Andy could tell Rafa that sophistication is a loosing cause as he would lean forward to ruff up his hair.

Andy pushes his hands deeper into his pockets. 

***

_HOLA!_

**Rafael Nadal Out on the Town with World No. 1 Husband, Andy Murray**  
12 April 2017 BY MARIA CARLITA

Just a few short months ago Rafael Nadal was Mallorca's most eligible bastard. That was before he married fellow tennis star, Andy Murray, in a secret ceremony in Monte Carlo.

Murray, who is from a small, cold town in Scotland, has told the press that he and Nadal were in a "committed relationship for years" before they decided to tie-the-knot, breaking hearts all over Spain.

Nadal hasn't commented on their marriage, and we here at _Hola!_ were starting to question the nature of their marriage.

All hopes were dashed last night, though, as Nadal and Murray were caught looking cozy at the Nadal family restaurant, Sa Punta. The happy couple shared laughs and a huge meal with Nadal's family, although they were never far from each other's side.

_Hola!_ has tried to contact the family for a reaction to the marriage. We have not heard from Nadal's parents or his uncle-turned-coach, but his sister did send back a brief statement: "Rafa is very happy. He and Andy have been together a long time, and they're enjoying some time together before they both have to go back on tour. Please, grant them their privacy."

There you have it girls. Rafael Nadal is officially off the market.

***

Andy shifts his bag on his shoulder. The Palma airport is fairly empty, but he can feel the eyes of several other passengers on his back and he can see the flashes of cameras out of the corners of his eyes. His shoulder is still sore.

"Thank you," Rafa says, cradling his wrist to his chest and looking down at his feet, "for come here."

Andy takes a deep, shuddering breath and remembers the way Rafa was at the restaurant the night before, all shy smiles and warm touches. Even if it was just for the paparazzi, Andy's going to hold those memories dear. "Thank you for having me. I know it couldn't have helped your recovery, but-"

Rafa shrugs. "Is okay. I meet you in Paris, for sure."

"I'll hold you to that."

"Is good. Toni will be very happy I have the motivation."

Andy chuckles, shifting his bag again and shaking his head. "It feels wrong, you sending me off for the clay court season." He pauses, then, because he's always been into a fair amount of self-flagellation, adds, "Alone."

Rafa reaches out, glances around them before pressing his hands to Andy's chest. "If I cannot win, is good it stay in family, no?"

Joking, god, Andy's missed Rafa joking.

"I'll keep the throne warm for you." Andy grins.

Rafa grins back, the first real, face-splitting grin Andy's coaxed from him all week. "I work hard. We fight it out in Roland Garros."

Andy shakes his head. If only Rafa knew how much more important his happiness is to Andy than a room full of French Open trophies.

Not that Andy would say no to one. Just one. Rafa can have the rest of them.

"We fight it out at Roland Garros," Andy agrees, holding out his hand to shake on it.

Rafa takes it, then uses his grip to pull Andy in for a brutal hug. It takes Andy a few long, shocked moments, but then he wraps his arms around Rafa's body and holds him just as tightly.

Cameras flash all around them, but Andy can't bring himself to care.

The speakers crackle to life with a raspy, quick message in Mallorquin.

Rafa pulls back with that same shy smile he wore the night before. "Is your plane. You need go."

"Okay." Andy bends over to pick up his bag, dislodging from their embrace. "Take care of that wrist."

Rafa cups it close to his chest again. "Tell the clay I see her in Paris."

Andy walks backwards for a few steps, before he has to turn to give the security agent his ticket and his passport.

It's not everything he wants. It's not turning around, running back into Rafa's arms for a kiss filled with all the goodbyes he's feeling.

It is progress, though, and for the first time since he arrived in Mallorca, he's pretty sure they're going to be okay.

***

Andy spends his first few days in Monte Carlo drenched in sweat, burning off all the extra pounds of fish and island laziness.

Lendl, for his part, doesn’t say a word about the last time Andy was in Monte Carlo.

His mini-fridge, he does notice, though, is empty.

He takes a picture and sends it to Rafa, with the caption, _Lendl's handiwork_.

_Smart coach_ , Rafa types back, hours later, followed quickly by, _can no marry other men now_.

It's the first time Rafa's joked about it. Andy can't stop grinning as he turns off his phone and forces himself to sleep. 

***

Andy thrashes Nishikori in the final, 6-4, 6-2. 

_felicitaciones!!!!_ Rafa texts, accompanied by a grainy, blurry picture of Andy raising the trophy on TV. Andy can see Rafa's toes in the foreground, and his heart thumps wildly with the knowledge that Rafa was watching him. 

If ever there is a tournament that _is_ Rafa's, Roland Garros aside, it's Monte Carlo.

Andy takes a picture of the trophy, focused in on the long line of Rafa's name, etched 9 times into the metal.

Rafa texts, _am glad it is you next_.

Andy traces the cool surface, imagining his name under Rafa's. Then he takes a screencap of the text for safekeeping.

***

"We're going out."

Jamie throws a button-up shirt across Andy's back, where he's laying facedown on the bed. "'m tired."

"You're not tired. You've barely even played a match yet." Jamie rolls his eyes; Andy can hear it in the tone of his voice. 

Andy scoffs into his pillow. "I almost lost."

"Sure, and moping is sure to help." Even Jamie's posture is dripping with sarcasm.

Andy denies it, out of principle, but he knows Jamie's right. Andy can't stop thinking about what Barcelona was like last year, when Rafa had picked him up after the player's cocktail hour for a late night clandestine dinner. It was a hole-in-the-wall place overlooking the water, the kind where the wait staff doesn't speak a lick of English. Rafa had laughed as Andy stumbled over the menu, but then he'd leaned over to explain everything meticulously, his breath smelling of garlic sauce and champagne as it brushed against Andy's ear.

"I think I've fucked everything up," he admits, as he and Jamie take seats at a local pub down the street from their hotel.

Jamie raises an eyebrow and orders a round of shots from the bartender.

"We used to have something. We were friends, the best of friends." Andy actually is pretty tired and he's running a little low on electrolytes after his near-embarrassing second round match, and Spanish liquor is strong. "Now we're-" He waves his hands. "I don't know. I wanted more and I lost everything." 

Jamie pushes another shot towards him. "Drink that. Then you have to pull yourself together."

"Yeah." Andy tips back the shot. "Yeah, okay."

"And you haven't lost anything." Jamie stares into his beer for a long, thoughtful moment, before taking a long sip and continuing. "You've gained everything."

Andy splutters into his own glass.

"No, listen." Jamie turns to him, resting his elbow on the back of his chair, as earnest as Andy has ever seen him. "Think about where you were six months ago."

"Number one in the world."

"Sure," Jamie grants him. "But you were hiding, from the press, from your closest friends, from me and mum and Rafa."

Andy closes his eyes. Years of resentment and distrust and disrespect stretched between him and Jamie before he finally sat with Jamie on their old, muddy, grade school swing set and let Jamie in to all the things he was feeling. He mumbled into his beer about the weights on his shoulder the size of Britain, about the boy he kissed under the bleachers at recess when he was twelve, about Rafa. Jamie had pulled him in to a hard, brotherly hug. And then he'd cuffed Andy in the back of his head and told him to buck up, much as he's doing now.

"Now you have everything you've always wanted. The press knows, the country knows, grandmum and pops know. Rafa knows."

"Rafa doesn't know."

Jamie stares at him, eyes dark and blinking slowly.

Andy shakes his head. "I haven't told him. I- we were so drunk, yeah? And he's barely spoken to me since. This isn't what he wanted."

"You don't know that."

"I do, though. This might be what I wanted, but, when I pictured it, he was there with me. It was all worth it, because he was-" Andy trails off.

Jamie shakes his head. "You need to talk to him. You'll never know for sure until you've talked to him."

Andy takes a long sip as he composes himself enough to joke, "any more sage advice, oh wise older brother?"

"Yeah," Jamie deadpans. "Don't forget that your goal this year was to win Roland Garros. Don't let your marriage stand in the way of that."

Andy snorts.

They finish off another round before Jamie decides he's had enough the night before he has a match and leads them both back to the hotel.

Andy's feeling just buzzed enough to strip to his boxers, slip into bed, and pull his phone out.

"Hola?" Rafa answers, sounding groggy with sleep.

"Hey." Andy's voice is softer than he'd like it to be. "Sorry, were you asleep?"

"Si, si, but, is okay."

Andy lets the silence stretch between them, filled with heavy breathes and all the things he isn't saying. He clears his throat. "Did you watch the match?"

"Si." Rafa's voice hardens. "You need work on second serve. Also, foot work."

Andy chuckles. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Watch tomorrow, I'll be a different player."

"Good." Rafa shuffles, and Andy pictures the blankets falling to his waist, bunching around his legs, the tops of his thighs bare and pale. "Clay is in family. Win for the family, no?"

Andy swallows hard into the phone and bites off three different version of _I miss you_ that he desperately wants to say. "Jamie took me out drinking after the match. I should probably go."

"Mmm."

"Sorry for waking you."

"Is no problem." Rafa sighs deeply into the receiver. "Buenas noches."

"Good night."

Andy ends the call and drops his phone to his bedside table. He sighs, stretching his soar muscles as he tries to shake off the image of Rafa in his bed, mostly naked, all warm, sweet-smelling skin and muscle.

He turns off the light and drops his hand under the waistband of his boxers.

***

_how is head?_ Rafa texts the next morning, while Andy's coalescing in an ice bath after a long and painful practice.

Andy laughs, holding his phone out of the water as he types back, _i drank lendls cure. tasted like sewage_

He gets back a long line of crying smiley faces.

***

The morning after Andy loses in the semifinals, Rafa sends a picture of his wrist. It's pale and a little wet and wrinkled from disuse, but it's bare of its brace.

He types back a series of _!!!!!!!_ before he has to turn off his phone for the flight to Madrid.

***

Rafa's healthy again.

Rafa's practicing hard, twice daily.

Rafa's on course for Paris.

Andy wouldn't be anything but happy about that, if it weren't for the nerves.

At least he's able to channel them into defending his Madrid title. He beats Novak in three, tight sets, before sending a quick victory picture to Rafa and climbing onto a plane with half of the tour.

"You're nervous," Novak points out, unhelpfully, eyeing the fingers Andy's tapping against his knees.

"Sure," Andy says, automatically, before remember that he and Novak have been friends since they were kids. He owes Novak more than that. "It's the first tournament Rafa and I are playing together," he admits half the truth.

"The press will be horrendous."

"Insufferable," Andy agrees.

"All the better for me." Novak keeps a straight face for almost fifteen seconds, before he laughs it off. "Joking, joking." He holds out his hand. "May the best man win."

Andy shake sit.

Now if only he can decide if he wants that to be Rafa or himself.

***

"Ahh, yes, Mr. Murray, welcome." The receptionist smiles her prettiest smile as she takes his passport. "You've been upgraded to the Honeymoon Suite. Congratulations on your marriage." 

"Oh, um, thank you." Andy kicks the toe of his shoe against the bottom edge of the reception desk.

"It comes with a king bed, a Jacuzzi, and a balcony with the best views in town." She winks at him. "You're going to love it."

"Ahh." Andy tries to think of any way to turn it down in exchange for the run-of-the-mill, two-room, two queen-bed suite he'd originally booked. His mind is blank.

"Here you go. I'll keep Mr. Nadal's key here for when he arrives. Enjoy the suite," she winks at him.

"Thanks," he mutters, taking his key card and heading to the elevators.

***

Rafa comes in hours later, jet-lagged and sore from his punishing practice schedule. He mumbles a hello, then something about a shower, and never returns.

Andy hears the low rumble of Rafa's snores not fifteen minutes later.

Andy watches a few episodes of Friends dubbed in French, before falling asleep on the couch and waking a few hours later, his lower back screaming at him for his foolishness.

He stumbles into the other room, and stops to stare at Rafa, dressed only in a towel, fast asleep in the middle of the bed with his limbs spread like a starfish.

Andy lifts the edge of the blanket and slips into the small space next to him. "Sorry, sorry, just, the couch is killer on my back and, do you mind?"

Rafa rolls onto his side, throwing an arm over Andy's chest.

Andy takes that as an affirmative.

***

When Andy wakes the next morning, Rafa's already in the bathroom. That thin towel is still wrapped around his waist and his chin is covered in shaving cream.

"Morning," Andy calls, rubbing at his hair with his fist. He feels more rested than he has in the three months since he woke up to find his world has turned upside down. Even with Rafa snoring loud, snuffly sounds into Andy's ear and giving off enough heat to keep an skim warm.

Rafa pokes his head out, says "Morning," and ducks back into the bathroom.

***

"Rafa what's it like having to fight for your 10th title with your husband nipping at your heels?"

"Andy, Andy, you said your goal for 2017 was to win Roland Garros. What does it mean to do that against your husband?"

Andy's gotten used to these questions, but it's Rafa's first time dealing with the press since their marriage. Andy reaches out and Rafa takes his hand gratefully, shuffling close as they make their way down the French Open Player Party's orange carpet.

"I'm just happy that Rafa's healthy again," Andy tells the gathered press. "A title here wouldn't mean anything if Rafa wasn't in the field."

"Hmm." Rafa purses his lips, resting his chin on Andy's shoulder and smiling for the cameras. "We see. Andy is playing very good on clay, no? But this is most important tournament for me. I prepare last 12 months to compete well here."

"As long as it stays in the family," Andy repeats what Rafa told him almost two months ago, "then I'll consider my goal achieved."

He pulls at Rafa's hand and leads him past the press and into the ballroom.

***

Andy almost forgets, as the night goes on, that this isn't real.

He has the ring on his finger.

He has Rafa at his side, his hand lingering on Andy's lower back as they suffer through an hour-long conversation about possible Davis Cup format changes with Jo-Willie and Richard Racquet.

He has Rafa's hand on his knee, warm and tight, as Andy takes complaints from the Czech contingent about the unfairness of the ranking system.

He has Rafa taking his hand and leading him into a much more amusing conversation with Ferru, standing close enough for their elbows and hips to brush.

He has Rafa stripping down to his briefs and climbing into their shared bed at the end of the night.

He has all that, and he can't keep himself from admitting, "I had a good time tonight." It's the closest thing to the truth he's said in months.

Rafa clears his throat, whispers, "me too," and drapes his arm over Andy's chest again.

***

The bed is cold when Andy wakes a few ours later.

It takes him a moment to realize why he's awake in the dead of early morning, but then he rises onto his elbows and looks around for Rafa. He finds him sitting in the window seat, silhouetted in the low light of the moon.

"Rafa?" He calls. His voice sounds loud and creaky in the stillness of the hour. "You okay? Your wrist, it's not-" He can't bring himself to even think about it.

Rafa, though, draws his hand across his face and takes a deep, loud, shuddering breath, and doesn't look at Andy. "I can no do this anymore."

Andy frowns. He's never seen Rafa look so worn. "I can go sleep on the couch, if you want," he offers.

"No, no." Rafa shakes his head. "Is not- Is my problem. No reason your back hurt for me being stupid."

"Rafa-" Andy sits up, pulling the blankets to his waist as he leans against the headboard. "It's not stupid, whatever you're feeling. And I'm sorry I've made you feel like you can't tell me what that is-"

"No, is not you." Rafa shakes his head, his newly grown hair brushing across his forehead. "Is me. Is too much, for me. The questions. The touching. The imagining about- it doesn't matter. Is stupid."

"Come over here, please, talk to me."

"Is too hard."

Andy puts his hand out, palm up, on Rafa's side of the bed. "Please, Rafa."

Slowly, cautiously, like every move brings him pain, Rafa unfurls from his seat by the window and sits gingerly on the edge of the bed. He draws his knees up in front of himself and reaches out gingerly to trace his fingers over Andy's.

Andy's whole body shivers at the touch. 

He looks at Rafa, his whole body hunched over, his fingers light in Andy's palm. He remembers the snippets of the kiss on their wedding day, remembers Rafa leaning in to him, remembers the feel of Rafa's hands in his hair and on his waist. He thinks about Jamie's words, about never knowing if he doesn't give a bit of himself first.

Andy thinks about all that, closes his eyes, and pushes into the last game of a fifteen-year match he's been fighting against himself.

"It's been really hard for me, too," he says, quiet to match the stillness of the room, but with none of the eggshells he's been walking on for months. "To be so close to what I want, without actually having it."

Rafa's head snaps up and he starts to draw his hand away, but Andy catches him.

"All I've ever wanted is you. And a few Slams, but, mostly you. Have since we were kids," Andy shakes his head ruefully. "And if you don't feel the same way, well, you can call the lawyers in the morning and have them draw up the divorce papers. I won't fight you."

Rafa is looking at him, eyes wide and red, his hand shaking in Andy's. 

Andy shrugs and finishes, "but I couldn't let you decide until you knew the truth."

"Is- is real?"

"The most real thing I've ever said. "

"I not know."

"I know." Andy tightens his fingers around Rafa's. "Jamie says I've been an idiot, and, I'm sorry for ever making you think I don't care. I've never cared about anything as much as I care about you."

Rafa scoots closer on the bed, raising his free hand to cup Andy's neck. "I not know," he repeats.

Andy shakes his head, turning to press a kiss to Rafa's palm even as he tells himself not to hope. "I never said anything. I focused all my energy on playing tennis, and then we were married and I thought, maybe, maybe, but you shut me out. I figured you were mad at me, and for good reason. I ruined your career."

Rafa shakes his head. "I not mad. I was sad. Was hard, see you all the time, but no touch you, no kiss you." Rafa pulls Andy closer. "Was too hard, if you think is fake, when is so real for me."

"Rafa," Andy whispers, pulling at their hands still clasped together on the bed and pressing a kiss to the ring on Rafa's left hand. "It's not fake. It was never fake. If you'll have me."

"Si, si." Rafa grins, the first true grin Andy's seen from him since their marriage. "Is real, is what I want."

Andy leans in and Rafa opens his mouth, pulling him in.

***

**_Sir Andy Murray Wins First French Open Title, Thanks Husband_  
**

  * Britain's favorite tennis star won the French Open title 4-6, 6-4, 7-6(5), 6-3 against defending champion Novak Djokovic
  * This was Murray's fourth Grand Slam trophy, and his first at Roland Garros
  * In his acceptance speech, Murray dedicated his victory to his husband Rafael Nadal



By CHRIS SPARGO FOR DAILYMAIL.COM  
Published: 12 June 2017

Andy Murray is still the number one tennis player in the world.

After beating his husband – 9-time French Open champion Rafael Nadal – in five sets in the semifinals, Murray beat possibly his greatest rival Novak Djokovic in four entertaining sets of clay-court tennis.

Before the year began, Murray set his sights on the French title. In his acceptance speech, he said that it was "my second-greatest accomplishment, next to my marriage."

He went on to thank his team and his family for their support. His mother, Fed Cup captain Judy Murray, and his brother, doubles champion Jamie Murray, were in his box to support him.

His greatest thanks, however, went to his new husband:

"Rafa is the reason I'm here. I couldn't do this without his love and support. I promised I'd keep it in the family, didn't I?"

Murray and Nadal were married in a secret ceremony this past February.

Monday morning, they were seen at a club in Paris, eyes for no one else as they were out celebrating with their teams before Murray had to fulfill his champion duties.

Is the French Open Murray's greatest victory? Sound off below.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are like air and water, so please leave them. Or come chat with me on [Tumblr](https://stainyourhands.tumblr.com) \- my inbox is open at any and all times!


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